


Getting to Know You

by bookjunkie1975



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkie1975/pseuds/bookjunkie1975
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Derek saves Stiles, one time he doesn't, and one time they maybe save each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting to Know You

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the following prompt: Stiles gets stuck/locked/whatever somewhere (because of Kanima shenanigans or other?). Derek tries to "rescue" him but instead gets stuck/locked/whatever as well.
> 
> I loved the prompt so much that I couldn't decide on a scenario, so I tried them all. Many, many thanks to my beta @le_rameau, who pointed out the 364 instances of the word "nice" in the fic and very gently urged me towards a thesaurus. xxooxx

1.  
The first time it happens it is really, truly, all Stiles’ fault. He’s wandering the edge of the Hale property for reasons he will later admit are not entirely altruistic, when the ground beneath him shifts and gives way. The next thing he knows, he’s cold and sore and water is soaking through his jeans. 

“Well fuck,” he says. And then “fuck, fuck, fuckitty fuck,” just for good measure.

He hauls himself awkwardly to his feet, letting out a sharp screech, when he tries to rest his weight on his left foot. Pain, hot and sharp, has him shifting to the side, hand shooting out to help balance himself against the wall of the well. The cold, slimy wall. Stiles shrieks again, yanking his hand away and ending up back on his ass. 

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he yells.

There’s a rustling sound from above. Stiles looks up as a dark shape appears, effectively blocking out most of the limited light. Stiles squints and thinks he can make out the outline of a head. 

“Hey!” he calls out. “A little help here, maybe?”

The head shaped blur doesn’t move. In fact, it stays still so long that Stiles starts to get a little pissed. 

“Come on asshole, are you going to get me out of here or not?”

The head shaped blur disappears. Stiles can hear footsteps moving away through the dry grass above him and panics.

“Wait! Wait! I didn’t mean that! You’re awesome! You’re amazing!  Please come back! Come back! Don’t leave me here!” he yells. “Fuck!”

“You have a very limited vocabulary,” he hears, just as a long coil of rope drops down to dangle directly in front of him. 

“Oh my god, you are officially my hero,” Stiles says. He scrambles to his feet , careful to keep the weight off of his bad ankle, and takes hold of the rope. 

“Now what?”

“Climb out.” 

Stiles definitely senses a bit of irritation. He hastily wraps the rope around his body and braces one foot against the wall but as soon as he tries to brace the other foot it slips off. He tries again and again, but the walls are coated with so much green muck that he just can’t get any leverage. Finally there’s a disgusted grunt from above and Stiles has just enough time to wedge himself against a wall before a huge body comes hurtling down. And suddenly there’s all 6 feet of Derek Hale, standing next to him and radiating all his werewolfy displeasure. 

“Oh, shit.”

Derek huffs, then grabs Stiles roughly, unwinding the rope and quickly reworking it into a harness which he then manhandles Stiles into. Stiles, for his part, stays perfectly still. No need to piss off the potentially homicidal werewolf. Best to keep calm in these situations. Be polite.

“So, hey, Derek,” he says. “Sorry I accused you of murdering your sister last week.” 

Stiles is pretty sure time actually stutters in appreciation of his colossal stupidity. Derek’s body goes rigid and Stiles takes a moment to legitimately regret the lack of a brain to mouth filter. But then Derek is turning away and leaping at the wall. He manages to cling to the side, several feet above Stiles and then he’s climbing. Stiles can see Derek’s hands have elongated and he’s clawing his way out Wolverine style which is just actually really, really cool. Also, he has a really spectacular ass. Really. 

Derek reaches the top, climbs over and disappears. Then he’s being yanked unceremoniously up and out. He lands in an awkward mess a few feet from the edge and just lies there for a minute, eyes closed and hands splayed appreciatively over the ground. The mid-afternoon sun warms his face and he’s content to just breathe. 

“Thanks, man.”

“Stay off my property,” Derek all but growls as he turns and stalks off into the woods. 

“Right. Ok. Asshole,” Stiles mutters under his breath. 

He’s managed to limp all the way back to his jeep before he even stops to wonder what Derek Hale was doing out there with a length of rope in the first place.

 

2.  
Stiles can hear the muffled sound of fighting going on outside the little room he has found himself unceremoniously tossed into. The storage room is dark and cluttered and tiny and there’s a body pressed warm and tight against him, which would be a good thing, an awesome thing even, if that warm body was a little shorter. And softer. And Lydia Martin’s. Instead it’s the tall, hard, incredibly toned and sloppily drunken body of Jackson Whittemore, which is disturbing to Stiles on many levels. 

“Do you think I’m pretty?” Jackson’s words come out breathy and slurred and hot against Stiles’ ear. 

“What?” Stiles squeaks.

“Pretty. Am I pretty?” 

“Oh my god.”

“Because you’re kind of pretty. I mean, you’re not horrible. With your face and stuff,” Jackson’s hands wave distractedly as he lists farther into Stiles’ space.

“What the hell have you been drinking? And how much do you weigh?” he groans as he tries to lever Jackson into a more upright position.

“Of course, you’re not as pretty as Danny,” Jackson continues, oblivious to Stiles’ efforts.

“No one’s as pretty as Danny,” he says.

“I know,” Jackson sighs like it’s the great tragedy of his life. “Well, maybe Lydia.”

“Definitely Lydia,” Stiles agrees. 

“She’s so pretty. And nice.” Jackson leans even closer, voice dropping to an almost whisper. “Sometimes,” he says quietly, “she lets me pet her hair.”

“Where is my phone and why am I not recording this?” 

“Can drinking lemon gin make you blind? Because I drank a lot and now I can’t really see so good. Also, I can’t feel my face,” Jackson’s hand smacks Stiles’ cheek as he starts flailing awkwardly around.

Stiles grabs his hands and holds them in place, patting in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “You’re not blind,” he says. “It’s just dark. We’re in a closet.”

“O.k.” Jackson’s quiet for a moment. “Why are we in a closet?” he asks.

“We’re hiding,” Stiles says.

“From the monsters?”

“Uh...”

“Is McCall a monster? Because last month he sucked at life but today he made three goals. Which is weird. Really, really weird.”

“Maybe it’s just puberty?” Stiles says and wishes very, very hard for someone to come and get them out of the closet right now.

“And he got pretty, too.” Jackson suddenly grasps at Stiles’ shirt, pulling him in until their chests are pressed right up against each other. His eyes are wide and almost desperate as he clutches at Stiles.

“Everyone in this town is pretty,” he says. “It’s not natural.”

“Don’t worry about it too much, Whittemore. You’re still the prettiest princess.” Stiles pats his shoulder awkwardly and Jackson breaks into a wide smile, all teeth and cheekbones and inviting, and christ, Stiles does not need to be having sexual epiphanies right now. 

Suddenly the door to the closet is wrenched open and light floods the little room. Derek Hale is standing in front of him, eyes dark and hands clenched in fists. His shirt is torn and there are spots of blood, bright red against the vivid white of it. 

“More pretty,” Jackson sighs. Then he leans forward and throws up all over Derek’s shoes. 

 

3.  


Stiles isn’t stupid but sometimes, he will admit, he does stupid things. Like going off on his own to investigate rumors about strange, human sized lizards creatures without mentioning to anyone what he plans on doing. Which is exactly how he gets himself stuck in a burnt-out warehouse on the edge of the industrial part of town. The building hadn’t looked too bad from the outside, but Stiles had been inside for less than five minutes before he’d tripped on some debris and found himself sprawled out and pinned under a shifting pile of rubble. 

Stiles can’t say he’s surprised when Derek shows up. At this point he seems to have made a habit of being exactly where Stiles needs him to be. It’s reassuring in a way Stiles refuses to assess. 

“This isn’t my fault,” he lies.

Derek is silent as he works, tossing chunks of brick and mortar to the side like they’re made of foam. He frees Stiles, pulls him up and onto his shoulder and runs. They clear the parking lot and are half way down the street before Derek stops and dumps Stiles on the ground. 

“Ow. Thanks for the save, asshole,” Stiles grumbles, as he heaves himself off the ground and makes a production of dusting himself off. Derek is oddly quiet, not that he’s a particularly verbal guy, but usually by now in their routine he’d be sparking off some kind of insult or pushing Stiles into the nearest wall or tree or something. It was kind of their thing. He looks over and Derek is shaking. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, and his arms are wrapped tightly around himself. Stiles is familiar with panic attacks. He’s just never found himself on this side of one before. He feels stupid and dumb and entirely useless as his brain tries to figure out why this is happening. 

“Hey, Derek,” he says, voice soft and as calm as he can make it while his heart jackhammers away inside his chest. “It’s fine. We’re good. We’re safe.”

Derek looks at him, his face cracked open with something horrible and desperate. Stiles feels it twist hard in his belly. He pulls Derek into him, wrapping his arms tightly around him as Derek shakes and shakes and shakes apart. He whispers soothing words against Derek’s hair while Derek all but burrows into his shoulder. 

“You smell like ash,” the words wrasp out of Derek’s throat, harsh and ugly. And it’s a punch to the gut when Stiles finally makes the connection. 

“Oh no,” he scrambles backwards, yanking his shirt up and over his head, scrubbing at his arms like he can erase the scent. “Oh no. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all over you. It’s all over me,” Derek’s voice cracks. They stand, staring at each other, Derek still shaking.

“Derek...” he says miserably.

Derek turns and runs. 

 

4.  
Stiles is cold. He is, in fact, colder than he’s ever been in his life. He sits shivering in the corner of the fully functional butcher’s freezer, watching Derek pace in front of him. Derek stops every few strides to throw himself uselessly at the door. Finally, Stiles has had enough.

“Would you stop that!” he snaps out. “It didn’t work the last ten times you tried, it’s not going to work now. The walls are laced with wolfsbane. You’re just hurting yourself.” 

Derek glares at the door for a long moment than turns and pull Stiles up off the floor and into him. 

“It’s colder on the floor. You need to stay warm,” he says.

“Oh my god, you’re like a furnace,” Stiles burrows himself into the solid warmth of Derek’s chest, numb hands creeping beneath his shirt and up under his armpits in an unabashed bid for heat. “Mmmm,” he sighs happily.

“You should try moving around,” Derek tells him. 

“Nah, I’m good here.” And he is. He’s even stopped shaking. And his feet don’t hurt anymore. In fact, he can barely feel anything. It’s great. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I left Scott a message before I came out here.”

“Great. I’m sure he’ll be here any second. He’s so reliable like that,” Derek scoffs.

“Nah, man, he’s good. He promised after last time,” Stiles pats clumsily at Derek’s chest. His movements are slow and uncoordinated. He thinks he should probably worry about that a bit but he can’t really find it in himself to care. 

“Stiles, your lips are blue,” Derek’s voice sounds scared. Derek shouldn’t sound scared. It’s very disconcerting. 

“S’alright,” Stiles mumbles. He wants to reassure Derek, but frankly it seems like just too much effort, so instead he nuzzles his head against his wide, wide chest and makes sleepy noises.

“Stiles. Stiles! Wake up! Don’t go to sleep!”

Someone is shaking him and it really sucks. There’s a sharp slap across his face and Stiles blinks his eyes open.

“Ow, asshole,” he grumbles, blinking and swaying where he stands. Derek is gripping his arms and staring at him, eyes assessing him anxiously. 

“Fuck,” he growls and then he’s flinging himself at the door again, claws out and desperate. Stiles watches with a strange detachment as dark lines snake up Derek’s neck and across his face. There’s the sound of steel bending and tearing but it all feels so distant and Stiles is drifting off to somewhere else. Somewhere silent and warm. 

 

\- 1.  
Gerard Argent takes him right off the lacrosse field, in front of his dad and half the city. 

No one saves him. 

 

+1  
“Your face looks better,” Derek says as he sits carefully down on the picnic table next to Stiles.

Stiles doesn’t flinch, but it’s close. He doesn’t like people in his space anymore, but Derek’s meant safe to him for a while now and his body allows it. 

They sit silently for a while, watching the sky darken and the first few stars of the night appear. It’s good. Derek’s solid presence next to him is reassuring and Stiles feels calm in a way he hasn’t for a long time. 

Finally, Derek breaks the silence. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he says. His voice is so heavy and sad. Burdened. Stiles doesn’t look at him, just shifts over to press his shoulder into Derek’s. 

“It’s not your job to look after me,” he says. 

“It feels like it should be,” Derek tells him softly.

Stiles leans back against the table and tilts his head to look at the stars. “Maybe,” he says, soft and tentative and a little bit breathless, “maybe we should be looking after each other.” 

It’s quiet. Stiles can hear the wind moving through the leaves and Cicadas chirping. A dog barks in the distance. Derek leans back next to him. A hand slides, warm and solid under his, fingers lacing together.

“That sounds pretty good, actually.”

Stiles closes his eyes and breathes. 

End.


End file.
